


The Steep and Thorny Way

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Sundering [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,</em><br/><em>Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,</em><br/><em>Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,</em><br/><em>Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads.</em><br/><em>And recks not his own rede.</em><br/>                   - Ophelia, <em>Hamlet, Prince of Demark, </em>Act I Scene iii</p><p>At the end of the day, a king is only a man in a fancy hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coronation

Sansa did not look up from Leyton's dazed eyes when she heard her husband, soon to be her king, enter the room. She did not look up when Willas sat on the edge of her bed, nor even when he reached over so Leyton could take hold of his finger.

"I cannot do this, Sansa," he said quietly, and only once Leyton declared himself satisfied with a little mewl of satisfaction did she look up to Willas. "I cannot be king."

"Of course you can," she said briskly, shifting Leyton over her shoulder and patting his back firmly. "You are more than capable of this, my lord, as you well know - you're just anxious, that is all."

He looked doubtful, but he said nothing more - she did not understand his apparent terror of being crowned, especially considering that he had ruled the Reach as king in all but name for years, given that he had secret treaties with every king and queen in the land and that Aegon Targaryen had had the good sense to exempt the Reach from taxes, given it was food from the Reach that was keeping most of the rest of Westeros alive. All that kept them tied to the Iron Throne was Willas' sense of duty, or honour, or whatever it was. Sansa had no doubt that had it been  _Mace_ Tyrell who had been Lord of Highgarden when the realm began to splinter that there would have been a King in Highgarden within the year.

"You will stand with me?" he asked, taking Leyton from her so she could rise to dress. 

"I am your wife," she reminded him, pausing to run her fingers through his hair and to tip his face up. "Willas, you  _are_ capable of this. You  _can_ do this."

He sighed, lowered his head once more to nuzzle into Leyton's soft mop of curls, and sighed again.

"I do hope you're right, Sansa."

 

* * *

 

"You are prepared, Septon?" Garlan asked sternly, putting his height to good use and looming as intimidatingly as he could over poor Septon Artem. He knew it was likely cruel, but Willas was anxious enough about all this ceremony and nonsense without the fool septon forgetting his lines. "Everything is correct and in order for the coronation ceremony?"

"I swear it, my lord!" the little man squeaked, fumbling with the elaborate cuffs of his sleeves. "Everything is ready to the utmost of our not inconsiderable abilities, my lord, Lord and Lady Tyrell will have little to do beyond make the walk from the doors."

Aye, a long walk along a polished aisle, watched intently by every man and woman of noble blood in the Reach - there were tents and pavillions all over the gardens, even Highgarden's famed hospitality failing in the face of such abundant numbers. 

"I think every single person here chose to wear green in some absurd attempt at currying favour," he murmured to Leo, offering her his arm and leading her up the steps to inspect the thrones - twins, although the one to for Willas, the  _King's_ throne, was slightly grander, a little higher and a handful of inches further forward - and finding them more than satisfactory, from the thread-of-gold sewn emerald velvet upholstery to the sweet wolves hidden amongst the carvings on the legs of Sansa's throne. He wondered, for a moment, if future Queens would object to that, or want their own sigils carved into the chair, and decided they likely wouldn't care, or else by the time such a thing was no longer worth notice, Sansa and Willas and all the rest of them would have become nothing more than names in histories.

On a small plinth just before the two chairs was a heavy cushion, also in green velvet but this time so dark it was almost black, just big enough to safely hold two matching circlets. Willas had fought against a crown at all, but everyone had insisted, even if only for ceremonial occassions. 

"I hope the damned septon doesn't knock the cushion off the plinth," Garlan grumbled.

"It's chained in place, my love," Leo said lightly, patting his hand. "Do stop fussing, Garlan, Willas needs you as calm as you can possibly be, you know that."

"I don't believe he has any great need of my calm when he has Sansa's," Garlan admitted. "She is quite frighteningly composed, isn't she? I am never quite certain what to make of her."

 

* * *

 

Their crowns were, he supposed, acceptable - they were little more than circlets, three intertwined bands of gold, yellow and white and rose-pink, engraved all over with twisting roses. It felt impossibly heavy on his head, although he could hardly deny how lovely Sansa looked in hers.

His stomach was still twisting, though, even with Sansa's hand warm in his and Garlan's reassuring bulk on his other side.

"You're trembling," Sansa whispered, leaning close with concern all over her pretty face.  _I think I may be drunk,_ he realised, but then his stomach rolled and he realised no, not drunk, just slightly panicked. "Are you ill?"

"No," he said breathlessly, shaking his head carefully - would he dislodge the damned crown if he did any more than that? - and forcing a smile to reassure her. "No, my lady, I am well enough."

"Marian will be here with Leyton soon," she encouraged him. "And there is no more ceremony to attend to - you may rest, my lord, you have done all they could have asked of you today and more."

He nodded, forced a second smile that she clearly did not believe, and was relieved to spot Marian at the doors, Leyton alert and smiling in her embrace. He held out his little hands the moment he spied Sansa and Willas, and Willas was overwhelmed with relief when he finally had the solid weight of his son in his arms.

"I think he prefers you to me," Sansa griped teasingly, leaning over to fuss at Leyton's hair and tweak his nose, to his obvious delight. "Although I cannot truly say that I blame him."

That shocked him out of the last of his nervousness, and he hid his surprise and, honestly, his embarrassment by ducking his head to talk to Leyton, who clapped his hands to Willas' cheeks and pulled him closer to bump their noses together, something he had learned from Sansa.

 

* * *

 

"You did wonderfully today," Sansa promised Willas as he unlaced her gown - sitting on the edge of her bed while she stood before him, unwinding her hair from the dozen narrow braids Marian had used to set it so it fell properly down her back. "You have given the Reach a king to be proud of."

She heard him sigh, felt his brow press to her spine even though his fingers did not still for a moment, not until her laces were loosened enough for her to shrug out of her bodice - once she had done so, he pushed so her gown slid entirely to the floor, and then he pulled her back to sit in his lap.

"You are so certain of me," he said quietly. "We have known each other a little over a year, Sansa - how can you be so sure of anything about me?"

He looked so afraid that, for some reason, she kissed him. He never looked afraid or nervous when they laid together, so she kissed him until his hands stopped shaking on her hips, and then she stood up and guided him back onto the bed, helped him out of his shirt and breeches and boots, and left him to make himself comfortable while she changed into her nightgown.

She left her stockings on. He liked when she did that, although he would never dare say as much aloud, and she felt that he deserved some small thing he liked after enduring today as he had.

His eyes went wide when she slid into bed beside him, curling against his chest and throwing her leg across his thighs.

"I am sure," she said, "because I am very adept at understanding people, Willas, and I understand that you will do this well."

He pulled her once more into her lap, and she paused only long enough to lean over and blow out the candle on the nightstand before kissing him.


	2. The deep breath before the plunge

Leyton was laughing along with Sansa when Willas slipped into her solar, sitting on the rug by the hearth, surrounded by dogs - floppy-eared, toothless old things that Willas had known from the day they were born and couldn't bear to see put down when they aged out of the hunting pack - and clapping in delight. Leyton was entirely transparent, in that way that only children could be, in his adoration of his mama, and Willas stopped to watch Leyton watch Sansa.

He envied Leyton that, sometimes. Sometimes, he wished he could simply enjoy Sansa's presence without feeling as though he needed some excuse to spend time with her.

"Come, come!" she called as soon as she noticed him, patting the couch beside her - it was an ancient piece, varnished so many times the wood was almost black and likely reupholstered just a often, but Sansa adored it and so he'd had it moved to her solar from the music room. "Leyton and I are laughing at my sister's letter, aren't we, my sweet?"

Leyton gurgled, clambering over the dogs and using Willas' leg to pull himself to his feet.

"Up!" he demanded, holding out his hands, and Willas did not hesitate to obey - with Leyton settled between them, he had a perfect excuse to wrap an arm around Sansa's shoulders, to draw them both closer. "Mama sing?" he queried then, and Sansa laughed and leaned down, cupping his cheek and kissing his hair. 

"Not now, sweetling," she said, "Mama must show Papa her letter, remember?"

"'Member," Leyton pouted, and Willas felt sorry enough for him that he lifted him up properly into his lap. "Papa read?"

"It is Mama's letter, Leyton," Willas chided, smiling when Sansa slid closer, against his side. "Mama will read it, lad."

"It's from my sister," Sansa confided, showing him the seal - not the racing Stark direwolf, but rather a howling wolf, Sansa's sister's chosen sigil to mark herself apart from their brother. "She writes that - oh, Willas, it's so absurd! That is what I was laughing at when you came in!"

"What is it, my lady?" he asked, sticking his tongue out at Leyton when he tugged on his doublet. "Has she found a secret love of your brother's?"

"Much worse - Tommen Lannister has asked for her hand!"

 

* * *

 

"It would be a sensible match," Lord Manderly said, and Arya could hardly contain her laughter - she knew full well how sensible a match with Tommen would be, just as well as she knew that not one person in the North would truly expect her to accept him. He was a  _Lannister,_ after all, the Kingslayer's bastard for all that his natural father had legitimised him.

He had also been writing her letters for quite some time, the first having arrived not long after Sansa departed for Highgarden - Arya had not replied to a single one, but Tommen was nothing if not persistent, and seemed to quite sincerely want her as his wife. She knew not why, except that mayhaps he had a finer grasp of diplomacy than his father did or mother had, or that he was as sweet as he had always seemed and wanted to set things right between their Houses.

Arya did not know if such a thing were possible - House Lannister had wronged House Stark in so many ways, so many  _terrible_ ways, after all. They had killed Mother and Father and Robb, crippled Bran and set him on whatever road had taken him from them, ruined the North and near seen the realm to destruction in refusing to admit that the Watch had the right of it, that Stannis Baratheon had the right of it when he went to the Wall.

"It would provide a measure of security to your lord uncle in the Riverlands, as well," Lord Manderly went on. "Your goodbrother is secure enough - the Reach has vast armies even now, and he has an excellent relationship with Asha Greyjoy, by all reports, so they might ally against the Lannisters should the need arise. Lord Tully, though..."

"Lord Tully has the backing of the Crownlands and the Stormlands, should he need them," Arya said, "because he remained loyal to his king."

Rickon, sitting at the head of the table, flushed bright Sansa-pink, and Arya couldn't help but grin - he was still embarrassed that he'd given in so quickly when the bannermen had come together to crown him, and Arya had delighted in teasing him since she'd discovered that.

 _What would Sansa suggest I do,_ Arya thought, sitting back in her seat as Rickon and Fat Wyman and the rest moved on to other topics - her marriage was of considerably less importance than the shipments of grain arriving from the Reach during the week.  _She would tell me to ask myself if I could bear to live as a Lannister, and remind me that a name is just a name. She would say that the decision was mine, because Rickon would never dare to force something like this on me, but that I should consider Rickon's feelings on the subject._

Arya thought over Tommen Lannister's letters. She would speak with Rickon away from Lord Manderly after they ate, and see what he thought of writing to the Bastard Prince on her behalf to invite him to Winterfell.

 

* * *

 

"A letter from  _Winterfell?"_ Jaime asked, and the maester shrugged - Creylen had come to the Rock at near the same time as Jaime's mother, the Lady Joanna and he showed no fear in the face of his King's anger. "Why should Tommen have received a letter from  _Winterfell_ of all places? What business has he with the Starks?"

"You will need to ask Prince Tommen, Your Grace," Maester Creylen said coolly. "I do not read his correspondence any more than I read  _yours_ , Your Grace."

Jaime scowled at that - as though the old bastard didn't know word-for-word what Brienne's letters said! - and stormed out of his solar, making for Tommen's rooms. It was unlike the boy to hide anything from him, much less something so enormous as a letter from the Starks, and he was determined to know  _why_ Tommen would hide such a thing.

He was not surprised to hear Addam's voice with Tommen's.

He  _was_ surprised to hear them speaking of visiting Winterfell, and doubly so to hear Tommen speak of paying court to Lady Arya. _  
_

Admittedly, it took Jaime a moment to remember that Lady Arya was the younger Stark sister, the one with the long face who had disappeared for years and reappeared just as those creatures began to overwhelm the Wall, hidden amongst the Dragon Queen's entourage as a serving girl and translator and sometime advisor, somehow, until her older sister had found her and recognised her.

 _Would that he were still a child,_ Jaime thought in sheer annoyance. Tommen had been a biddable little boy, sweet-natured and sweet-tempered, but he had grown difficult in recent years. 

Jaime only really had himself to blame for that, he supposed. Had he actually  _told_ Tommen that he had a living half-brother in the form of Galad, Brienne's bastard-turned-heir, they might have been closer. Instead, Tommen had turned to Addam and become distant with Jaime, which was disappointing - even the revelation that Jaime was his father, not his uncle, had not harmed Tommen's affection for him.

"What's this about Winterfell?" he asked without preamble, pushing into Tommen's solar ( _bloody cats everywhere, why couldn't he have outgrown that?)_ and slamming the door behind him. "I have just been informed that you have had a letter from Rickon Stark-"

"I will depart before the new moon," Tommen said shortly, folding his arms. He was disarmingly like Jaime himself had been at that age, albeit more serious and taciturn, less ready with a quip or a jape (more like Tywin Lannister than Jaime had ever been, gods forbid that Tommen become the man his grandfather had been), and it was always disquieting when he stood directly against Jaime. "I may return with a wife - Winterfell seems ripe with brides this past year or so, after all."

Few had been anything but surprised when Sansa Stark had left Winterfell for Highgarden, that she had settled for the cripple after all the trouble she had gone to in order to ensure that her reputation remained intact. Jaime wondered why Tommen, who aside from his former bastardy was the most eligible young man in Westeros, was settling for a woman who seemed to revel in her notoriety.

"I depart before the new moon," Tommen said again, glancing back to Addam, who shrugged. "And I may visit Myrcella at Sunspear before returning here - if I am as lucky as Willas Tyrell was during my time at Winterfell, I may have a sister for her to meet."

 

* * *

 

"They snore the same," Sansa whispered to her maid as she dismissed her, shutting the door of her bedchamber as quietly as she could.

Willas had waited for her with Leyton, curled up together in her bed. It was painfully obvious how much like his father Leyton was with his eyes closed, without her eyes to distract from the fact that every single other feature in his face matched Willas' to perfection under his puppy fat. She loved the look of them together, awake or asleep, and wondered how she looked beside them.

Willas stirred as she struggled out of her gown, lifting his head and blinking muzzily in her direction, watching her owlishly as she stripped bare. 

"You are late to bed, my lady," he murmured, a gravelly hum loud enough for her to hear but not loud enough to wake Leyton. "I hope my mother did not keep you."

"Not your mother," she assured him. "Lady Tarly and Lady Rowan, and whatever other women there were wittering on at me about my sister being yet unwed, and my not being with child again."

"Would that we were alone," he teased, more alert now, shifting Leyton onto his chest and holding out his arm as she slipped under the covers. "I might remedy the latter, although the former remains beyond my control."

She felt her cheeks heat, and looked up at him, wondering why it was that he held himself apart from her so often, when it was so clear that he wanted such a thing as little as she did. It was only when he was sleepy or after a few cups of wine that he allowed himself to be affectionate with her, except when they shared a bed without Leyton.

"Tomorrow night," she promised, leaning up just enough to kiss the edge of his mouth before settling under his arm, her hand over his on Leyton's back. "Sleep for now, my lord - we have another long day ahead of us."

"No, we don't," he murmured against her hair. "We are taking the day for ourselves, you see - I have already made secret plans with Aldwin and Marian, my lady, and you and I are going to be gone long before we can be dragged into some awful diversion or other. I intend on taking you swimming on the morrow."

"But your uncle is arriving in the morning!" she said, sitting up. "Willas-"

He reached up, twisted his hand into her hair, and pulled her mouth down to his.

"And we will greet him tomorrow afternoon," he said, grinning and rubbing Leyton's back when he stirred a little. "Please, Sansa - just one day. I swear to you, I will be much more amiable for it."

 

* * *

 

Rickon frowned when Arya sauntered out into the yard.

"Are you not going to meet Prince Tommen?" he asked anxiously - Sansa had ridden out to greet her husband, when he had been simply Lord Tyrell and not King Willas. "Would that not be polite-"

"I am not Sansa to pander to a man who is chasing me," Arya said firmly, folding her arms and raising a challenging eyebrow. "He will have to do more than make a little journey to earn the honour of  _my_ hand, little brother."

And more than that Prince Tommen had to do, much to Rickon's embarrassment. Arya was as haughty as ever he had known her to be, and was absolutely no help when he forgot to offer some courtesy or other that had Lord Manderly huffing beside him and Maester Lorcan hissing a correction from behind him.

Then, worst of all, while they were eating she issued Prince Tommen with a challenge.

"Brienne of Tarth," Arya said, leaning her chin on her hand (her elbow landed in a puddle of spilled ale, and Rickon was glad that Sansa was far away - she had sewn that dress before she departed for Highgarden, for Arya's last nameday, and she would be furious to see how carelessly Arya treated it), "told me that she once challenged a man to a duel for the right to her own hand."

"Is that so, my lady?" Prince Tommen said mildly, leaning back in his seat at Rickon's right hand, goblet dangling from his fingers as he watched Arya intently. "Am I to suppose from this anecdote that you intend on a similar challenge for me?"

"Would such a challenge cause you strife, my lord?" she asked, her tone sharp and almost mocking. Rickon frowned at her, trying to make her rein herself in, but she merely grinned at him before turning her attention back to Prince Tommen.

"I would  _relish_ such a challenge, my lady," the prince corrected her. "When might you wish to put such a challenge to me, Lady Arya? And might I enquire as to whether we would be fighting with live or blunted steel?"

"Live, of course," Arya assured him, fingering the pommel of her sword (Rickon hadn't even noticed that she was wearing it, and decided he hated the wide, sweeping skirts Sansa preferred and made Arya wear sometimes if it meant the younger of his sisters could hide her damned  _sword_ ). "Where is the fun in fighting with blunted steel?"

 

* * *

 

Tommen Lannister's sword was a pretty thing with goldwork on the hilt, and it looked even prettier lying in the muddy snow than it had in his long-fingered hands.

Arya felt a sudden rush of something like elation, but hotter, and tossed aside her own sword - much plainer and more practical than the princeling's - and dove for him, catching him in the gut with the point of her shoulder.

She quickly decided that that had been a bad choice, if only because he was so unexpectedly  _solid_ \- Arya remembered him from when they were children, little fat Tommen who preferred sitting with his sister and their kittens to playing with other boys, and this was...

She cried out in surprise when he rolled her suddenly, slamming her back into the mud and pressing his weight into hers, pinning her legs with his and holding her wrists high over her head.

"Yield," he huffed, pressing more of his weight into her when she struggled. "I have  _won,_ damn you, now _yield."_

Arya, to her surprise as much as anyone else's, yielded.

To her even greater surprise, she began to wonder if it would be difficult to climb to the window of the guest chamber where Prince Tommen had been roomed.

 _I may not be a maid,_ she thought as he helped her to her feet, fetched her sword, and apologised profusely for any hurt he may have caused her, blushing all the while,  _but I suspect that he is_.

Tommen bowed low to her, sheathed his sword, and walked away to speak with Lord Marbrand in rapid, hushed whispers.

 _He may not be a maid for much longer,_ she decided, waving away Rickon's concern and watching Tommen depart.  _I wonder if he wields his short sword so well as the long._


	3. Planning

"Would you like another child?"

Sansa arched into Willas' chest as his fingertips skipped and slid up her spine, nuzzled her face under his chin, dug her fingers into the muscle of his arm and twisted her legs tighter with his. She loved him like this, while he was still muzzy with pleasure, while he was so open and easy and that queer shyness he still allowed to colour their every interaction was nowhere to be found.

"Eventually," she sighed, luxuriating in his hum of pleasure when she pressed her thigh to his half-hard cock. "Leyton is quite enough for now, though, don't you think?"

"He is wonderful," Willas murmured, his voice spilling over with pride. "And very demanding, too, for such a small person - I wonder if we ought indulge him less?"

"I should feel terribly cruel, refusing him anything," Sansa admitted. "Unless something were bad for him, I couldn't see a reason to tell him no - is that terrible?"

"He will want to go with you, if you accept the Kingslayer's invitation to your sister's wedding."

"He will want to stay here with you," Sansa laughed. "He  _adores_ you, Willas, he quite despairs when he has to be away from you for more than a day - how in the world would he survive weeks and weeks apart from his beloved papa?"

 

* * *

 

"Is it that you think I will make an inferior queen, little brother?" Arya teased, shaking out the cloak Wylla Manderly and Jorelle Momrmont had sewn for her - it was a simple thing, white and grey and very Arya, Rickon had said, as different to Sansa's maiden's cloak as it was possible, considering they were essentially the same.

"I- no, but I wonder why even so. A  _Lannister,_ Arya!"

"I like him," she said, shrugging. "He does not expect me to be anything other than what I am, and he is clever and charming and very handsome - why shouldn't I wish to marry him, even without considering the far-reaching political implications of a union between he and I? A healing of the rift between House Stark and House Lannister?"

He was also a perfectly charming lover, although she was not about to say as much to Rickon - he would have run all the way to Casterly Rock in his stocking feet to claw Tommen's face off if she did so, because Rickon would of course refuse to believe that it had been Arya who coaxed Tommen into lying with her. She'd had much to teach him, and had much yet to go, but she knew that all that golden-smooth skin and those long, lean muscles would remain interesting enough to keep her from boredom for quite some time.

"He's very sweet, too," she admitted. "I  _like_ him, Rickon - when do you last remember me liking anyone but Sansa?"

"What about me?" Rickon asked indignantly, entirely distracted from his previous course. "You like  _me_ , don't you?"

"I don't know, little brother," she teased again. "You know how I like to have my own way, and you are standing against me in this - mayhaps if you were to stop objecting quite so strenuously, I could be convinced to like you once more."

 

* * *

 

"What is it, Garse?" Willas asked, not looking up from his book - he had Sansa curled against his side, under his arm, his bad leg raised on a footstool, and Leyton taking up half the couch, sprawled out and snoring. He had been having a perfectly lovely evening, right up until the moment his bastard cousin had entered the room.

"An envoy, my lord," Garse said, sounding out of breath and anxious. "From Casterly Rock, sire, bearing a treaty of sorts guaranteeing the Queen's safety if she wishes to attend her sister's wedding to Prince Tommen."

"From the Lannisters?  _Here?!"_ he gasped, tugging Sansa closer, reaching out to curl his hand through Leyton's hair - it was the Lannistes' fault that Father and Grandmother and Loras and  _Margaery_ had died, and Uncle Paxter and Horace as well as hundreds of thousands of others, when Cersei damned  _Lannister_ set the whole city aflame with Mad Aerys' wildfire, and Willas could feel the panic glawing up his throat at the thought of Sansa and Leyton being anywhere near one of those mad, murderous bastards. He couldn't stand the thought of her going to Casterly Rock, was calmed only by the knowledge that her brother would be there with her and that Rickon was, if possible, even more protective of her than he was himself. "When did they arrive? Is it someone we know?"

"The Kingslayer's Hand, Your Grace," Garse said, shrugging. "Lord Addam Marbrand of Ashemark, Willas, he's a decent enough sort for all that he's the Kingslayer's closest friend and advisor."

Willas had met Lord Marbrand a handful of times, and had indeed signed border treaties with him acting on the Kingslayer's behalf - but that did not mean he wanted the Kingslayer's Hand in Highgarden, near his wife and his son.

"I will come now," he said, accepting his crutches from Sansa. "Please, my lady, remain here with our son - I pray I will not be long, but if I am, forgive my absence at table."

"Of course, Your Grace," she assured him, rising and curtsying before lifting Leyton off the couch, somehow not disturbing his sleep. "I will wait to speak with you before retiring, if I may?"

"Of course, my lady," he promised, leaning over to kiss first Leyton's curls and then Sansa's cheek. "Later, I swear to you - I will tell you every word that Lord Marbrand speaks."

 

* * *

 

Sansa did not question it when, instead of telling her what had transpired during the audience with Lord Marbrand upon entering his solar, Willas had tossed aside his crutches and seized her to him, kissing her hard and hungrily, one hand twisting into her loose hair and the other pressing tight to the small of her back, holding her close to him as he swayed and tried to catch his balance.

"He speaks about you as so much  _meat,"_ he fumed, "as though you are some empty-headed ninny in constant need of having your hand held. It- I was so  _angry_ with him for discounting everything you have survived and achieved!"

"Did you insult him?" she asked, leaning down to gather his crutches and helping steady him as he set them back under his arms. "Promise me that you did not, Willas."

"I did not," he promised, "but it was a near thing - I can easily see why he and the Kingslayer are such close friends, Sansa. One is every bit as insufferable as the other."

She held the door to the bedchamber open for him, saying nothing as he limped across to the bed and sat down, throwing aside his crutches once more before holding out his hands to her. 

"He has brought a formal accord, guaranteeing your safe passage in the Westerlands both going to and coming from your sister's wedding to Prince Tommen," he told her, drawing her down into his lap. "With Lord Marbrand as your personal escort, if I require such guarantees, and permission for a force of our men of suitable size such as to protect you to my satisfaction to enter Lanister lands as your guard."

"I am honoured that you clever men see me worthy of such enormous consideration," she said wryly, settling her knees on either side of his hips and beginning on his doublet. "Jaime Lannister is many things, Willas, but he is no fool - he knows well that if anything ill were to befall me during a visit to the Westerlands, his every neighbour would turn against him.  _Particularly_ if any such ills were to befall me at a wedding, my lord."

He allowed her to remove his doublet, and then held up his arms so she might tug his shirt over his head. 

"I must admit that I anticipate your departure with no small measure of foreboding," he said against her collarbone, shaking his head. "I would place any obstacles I could in your way."

"If it were your brother," Sansa said, catching his head and tilting his face up to hers, "would you allow anything to stand in your way, if you had the chance to see him happy for the first time in far too long?"

"Sansa-"

"Arya's letters make it clear that she sincerely likes Tommen Lannister, Willas," Sansa pressed on. "I would see her happy, husband - she deserves it. Please. Allow me to go. Allow me just that."

 

* * *

 

Arya cocked her head, grinning wide as she surveyed Casterly Rock.

"What has you so happy, sister?" Rickon grumbled, pulling up alongside her and frowning. "Are you truly so eager to live by the sea that just the sight of your home to be has lightened your heart?"

"Are you blind, little brother?" Arya laughed. "Look there, Rickon - those are Tyrell banners flying, signalling that there are Tyrells staying as guests here. What Tyrell might be in attendance at Casterly Rock for my wedding but the Queen in Highgarden?" Her smile was brilliant. "Sansa awaits us within, Rickon - Sansa!"


	4. The one less travelled by

Arya had never been one for dancing, but something about the joy in Tommen's face when he moved to music delighted her as few things had since that long-ago time in Winterfell, and so she found herself dancing and dancing and dancing, even more than Sansa.

Sansa had her son to occupy her, of course, the sweetest child Arya had ever seen, rosy cheeked and wide-eyed like his mother. Arya generally did not like small children, but she was very taken with her little nephew indeed, and she made certain to dance with him, too, before Sansa took him away to settle him for the night.

She was sorry to see Sansa depart the festivities - her sister still loved such celebrations, but Arya could see in Sansa's face that she preferred her son's company to that of any man or woman in Casterly Rock, herself and Rickon included, and had gathered that Sansa missed her shy husband very much indeed, having not been apart from him for quite a long while.

And then, the bedding. Arya grinned and laughed as Lord Marbrand hefted her up to sit on his shoulder, out of reach of the grabbing, grasping hands, and she winked across to Tommen and blew him a kiss.

He flushed bright, brilliant Lannister crimson, and she laughed all the more.

 

* * *

 

"My wedding to your papa was not so extravagent as this, my sweet," Sansa murmured, rocking slowly as Leyton suckled sleepily, his hand curled pink and warm against her breast. "And I knew him much less than your aunt knows Prince Tommen, but I think we have made a good match, don't you?"

Leyton stared up at her with glazed eyes, his cheeks flushed and his curls sticking to his brow - it was unbearably warm within the keep here, althought outside it was bitter cold with the winds blowing in off the sea - and Sansa was sure that nothing had ever been more beautiful.

"Your papa is a good man, darling boy," she whispered, bowing her head closer to his face. "A wonderful man - I only wish he believed it of himself as everyone else does. You already love him so much, don't you, sweetling?"

Leyton detached with a sigh and a yawn, nuzzling against her skin contentedly.

"Shall I tell you I secret, my little prince?" Sansa said, her voice barely a breath against Leyton's ear as she gently lifted him over her shoulder. "I think I might love him, too."

 

* * *

 

"Tommen did not want me here," Brienne guessed, toying with the ends of her hair. "But he wishes to know Galad, doesn't he?"

"It's Myrcella's doing," Jaime insisted. "Tommen would have been more accepting had she not-"

"They are not you and your sister. He does not blindly follow wherever she leads - in fact, I do not particularly blame him for disliking me. I am but one more lie to add to your already lengthy collection."

"Why thank you,  _wench,"_ he snarled, "for highlighting my shortcomings."

 

* * *

 

Tommen leaned back against the bedpost, and Arya watched him watch her. There was something there, under his sweetness and considerate nature, under the lust and the interest, that worried her slightly. She had seen it a little while he was at Winterfell, whatever strange thing it was that had driven him to seek her hand, and she had thought it better that she be close enough to control him at least a little than to let him run loose.

"What a curious creature you are," he said, folding his arms and smiling a queer little smile that made her skin itch. "I think I shall very much enjoy being your husband, Arya Stark."

 _Arya Lannister now,_ she thought,  _just as Sansa is Sansa Tyrell._

"I never imagined being told such a thing," Arya said lightly, rolling once more onto her back and spreading out to take up as much of the vast bed as she could. "I imagined my marriage would be one of purely political feeling - and do not lie, my prince, for there is surely no small measure of politics in our match."

"Oh, there is," he agreed. "My...  _father_ has no mind for it, and doubtless it is assumed across the realm that I do not either, but I am my mother's son and, I hope, my grandfather's grandson. Our marriage will add a certain level of stability to the realm. Well,  _realms."_

Arya couldn't help but smile at that, even though Tommen comparing himself to his grandfather disquieted her - it was still so strange to think of the Seven Kingdoms as a disbanded mass of tenuous alliances, but they were so now and those alliances had to be shored up.

"But you are very interesting, my lady," he continued, still smiling. "And I have found no such interesting women among the sisters and daughters of my... lord father's bannermen."

 

* * *

 

"Your Grace."

Sansa looked up in surprise, rising to greet the Kingslayer.

"Your Grace," she returned in kind, pursing her lips to hide her confusion at his unexpected intrusion. "It is a pleasure, of course - we are most grateful for your abundant hospitality."

"I am sure you are, Your Grace," he agreed with a grin so sharp Sansa nearly moved away from it. "It is not your thanks I am after, my lady, but rather your assurances that you will speak well of myself and my son to your husband."

Sansa blinked, startled - she had not expected any sort of sincerity from Jaime Lannister, and found herself almost amused by it. 

"Of course," she said. "I am sure my sister consenting to marry Prince Tommen is recommendation of his virtues for my husband, though - he is quite aware of how... Untrusting she is."

To Sansa's further surprise, the Kingslayer sat opposite her and looked hard at her, as if comparing her to someone else.

"I do not want more war, my lady," he said shortly. "I am too old, and Tommen is not of the correct temperament. I would have peace on two borders-"

"Three, in truth," she broke in mildly. "Our lord uncle will not do anything to harm my sister, I promise you."

 

* * *

 

Rickon was displeased by how little time he got with his sisters together, and made his displeasure well known when eventually he got them alone for dinner.

"I come all this way south to see the both of you, and I end up stuck with shining little  _shits_ of Lannisters and half-Lannisters instead," he grumbled, bouncing Leyton on his knee. "I have not seen you in over a year, Sansa, and-"

"And you are not behaving as the King in the North ought," Sansa interrupted, lifting her son from his arms and smiling when the babe cooed happily and twisted his hands into the loose ends of her hair. "Your dignity is very important, Rickon, remember it always."

"Arya does not," he muttered, crossing his arms and slumping low in his seat, much to Arya's amusement.

"But I am a princess of the Rock now, little brother," she reminded him, rolling her eyes. "My dignity is to be set at my own whims, for the whims of a Lannister are to be obeyed without question, do you not understand?"

 

* * *

 

Then, quite as suddenly as she had arrived, it was time to depart Casterly Rock.

Time to once more leave Arya and Rickon.

It had pained her more than she could say to wish them farewell once more, but at least now she had Leyton, at least now she knew that she would be happy in Highgarden and let go of her apprehension, the same apprehension that had left her uncomfortable in Willas' company sometimes on their journey south.

Their travels through the Westerlands were largely uneventful - the oceanroad was a barren but clear ride, and even the hills presented little problem.

Or at least, the road was clear until just beyond the border with the Reach, where it had been blocked by a landslide of some sort.

"We'll have to take the longer way around, Your Grace," her guard told her, looking uneasy - he was a bastard cousin of Willas', Garse Flowers by name, and near as suspicious and untrusting as her dear husband. It was a comfort of sorts to have him with her, in truth. "It may be easier if you were to ride, my lady - the better to escape if we are attacked."

And so, with Leyton bound to Garse's chest, Sansa mounted Whisper and gathered her cloak close around herself, the same blue-grey mantle she had worn to greet Willas at Winterfell.


	5. A parent's love

Sansa remained calm, even though she very much wished to be afraid. They had bound her at wrist and ankle, and tied both then to some part of the wagon in which they were travelling - she could not see through the blindfold, which had been well tied, and even had she not been gagged she was not certain that she would have asked. After the way they had cut down her guard, she was of the opinion that she was best off keeping quiet.

She prayed only that Garse had gotten away with Leyton. She had seen Willas' bastard cousin riding out of the fray, had heard some of their assailants denounce him for a craven, but she hoped beyond all hope that he might have saved her son.

She could not hear a babe wailing, as she knew Leyton would surrounded by strangers, and so it was either hope that Garse had gotten him away or lose her mind. As it would serve no purpose to let grief, necessary or no, overwhelm her at present, she chose to hope. She had thought to give up on hope before returning home to Winterfell, before the men had returned victorious from the Wall, but she had found a home for it in her heart again since then, and gave all of it that she had to thoughts of her little boy.

Her jaw was aching from the gag - it tasted foul, too, dirty and stale, but that was the least of her worries. She had suffered worse indignities than a dirty rag being used to gag her, after all, and would suffer this gladly if only they told her whether or not they had Leyton.

Somehow, she was not at all afraid for her own safety. She had been a hostage before, and knew that she could survive beatings - and she had an inkling as to why she had been taken, so she was reasonably certain that she was safe from being raped - and knew that she could survive the taunting and cruelty that went along with beatings better than most others could. She knew as well that she was stronger now than she had been then, and so she was not worried for herself.

If only they would let her know if they had Leyton or not. She might sleep then, she thought, for they had given her naught but some water and she was hungry, and thought that sleep might stave off the hunger for a time.

 

* * *

 

 

"The Queen and her party are due soon, are they not, Your Grace?" Garlan heard someone or other ask - he was not minding the conversation much, watching instead for his hawk. He was always on guard when Dickon Tarly was about - the boy was half a monster, vicious and nasty, and he bred his animals to be the same. Garlan kept an eye on his hawk and Willas' as well, not willing to risk any of Willas' beautiful birds at the talons of Tarly's creature.

Sansa, Leyton and their guards ought to have returned by now, in truth, but Garlan did not say as much - Willas was worried enough as it was without his drawing attention to the delay. He was having a hard enough time holding his temper without people fraying his nerves with reminders that his wife and son were delayed beyond the time expected. Willas had always been the most level-headed of them, even more than little Margaery had been, but something about marriage and fatherhood had given him a whip-crack of a temper when certain pressures were exerted, pressures that seemed to come solely in the form of fears of all the evils that might befall Sansa or Leyton.

Garlan knew his brother well, and he knew that it was not fear of his own inability that had made Willas shy of a crown, even if Willas would never have admitted it. Garlan had always been more than a little in awe of his brother's perfect self-assurance, and knew full well that it had been fear of an uprising, fear of war from the Crownlands, that had made Willas deny the bannermen when they had initially planned to crown him. He had feared, much as Garlan himself had, that his own death would leave his son open to harm. Garlan knew those fears - he had worried the same himself, when he had ridden north to the Wall to fight the demons and the dark. He had been certain that he would return home to find Leo and the children dead and Florents back in Brightwater, and had wept to find them all well and safe.

Dickon Tarly seemed to have a perfect map of those pressures in his thick skull, though, the ones that sprung Willas' temper so readily, something which annoyed Garlan to no end. He could never remember anyone riling Willas so easily as the little bastard could, and although he endeavoured to keep them apart as much as possible, Lord Tarly had an attraction to power that had manifested more politically than that of his late father. The boy sought Willas out at every turn, and when he was not bulling his way into Willas' solar while Willas was enjoying an evening with his friends, he was sending one of his sisters - sweet girls, true enough, and pretty in a soft sort of way, but too shy and cowed to ever turn Willas' head, even had Sansa not ruined every other woman (and man, Garlan suspected) for Willas.

"My wife and son are indeed due to return any day now, Lord Tarly," Willas said evenly, even though his eyes were narrowed, a sure sign that he was heading for annoyance at least and anger at worst. "What of it? I had thought that you planned on departing on the morrow-"

Whatever remark Willas had intended on passing was mercifully cut off by the shouts of a servant, riding hard from the direction of home, calling for Willas. Well, calling Your Grace, Your Grace!, which was much the same thing, for all it was still difficult to adjust to the change, even with the circlet glinting amidst the curls of Willas' hair.  
"Your Grace," he said, all gulping for breath and red-faced, "Your Grace, you must return to Highgarden at once, sire, you must come now."  
"What is the matter, man?" Willas said, turning his horse around to better look at the man - Garlan could read Willas like a book, and knew why his brother had paled so. Willas had already seen Sansa and Leyton's bodies being laid in the ground beside the empty graves for Father and Margie and Loras and Grandmother.

"Ser Garse has returned, my lord," the man said, "and although he has Prince Leyton with him, he... Her Grace, sire. He says that the Queen has been taken."

Rather than running completely wild, as Garlan would have expected, Willas went perfectly still for a long moment. Then, surprising Garlan further, he brought his right hand to his lips, whistled loud and sharp, and waited very quietly until his hawk returned to his arm, replacing its hood and leash with careful, trembling fingers as Garlan and the rest watched on in terrible silence.

"Excuse me, my lords," he said, and Garlan wondered if any of their companions could hear the panic just under Willas' control. "But it seems I must take my leave of you."

Garlan whistled for his hawk and did not bother to wait - it would catch him up eventually, but if he did not catch Willas up he could not begin to guess what his brother might do.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a week, and they would not tell her outright whether or not they had Leyton.

Alekyne Florent was not a handsome man, or even an obviously intelligent one. He seemed more interested in boasting of all that he would do once he was King of the Reach and Lord of both Highgarden  _and_ Brightwater than anything else.

He was an oddly boring captor, which would have amused Sansa had it not been for the way his uncle, Ser Colin, hinted that they  _did_ have Leyton, just somewhere apart from her. The thought of her babe alone and without true care terrified her so much that she had twice now forgotten that she was a captive, and had acted a queen.

Her composure after the beatings - mild indeed, compared to the tender care she had endured in King's Landing - had seemed to unnerve the Lords Florent, which only strengthened her determination to remain calm. If she remained calm, they might become more frustrated and reveal more of Leyton's whereabouts.

She still was not particularly worried for herself - she knew without any shadow of doubt that Willas would be searching for her, searching for them both, and knew with just as much certainty that he would not rest until he found them. He would see their boy home safe, she knew, if it was within his power, and while that was a comfort, it would not stop her from worrying.

She had decided not to speak beyond inquiries after Leyton, and that, too, seemed to leave her captors feeling off, and she prayed that they continue to be so, that they might be so wrong-footed as to trip themselves up.

 

* * *

 

 

Willas had not let Leyton out of his sight since last evening, since learning what had occurred on the road - he had even slept with his son in his arms, had stayed in the room while the wetnurse fed Leyton his fill.

Dickon Tarly had thought to object to Leyton's presence in the council chamber, and only for he had been holding Leyton at the time, Willas would have torn the blasted fool's head from his shoulders.

"Let me take him a moment," Garlan offered gently, running a hand over Leyton's curls - still that rich auburn-brown, between Willas' own colour and Sansa's, and a sudden fear seized Willas that there would be no more babes with that lovely hair - and down his back as far as Willas' arm. "I will be seated just beside you, brother. He will never be far, I swear it."

It was almost painful to let go of his son, but Willas managed it, just about.

"It is likely the Florents that took my wife," he said, unable to keep himself from reaching over to take Leyton's hand - he had come so close to losing him, might yet lose Sansa, and he already knew that he could not bear to lose either. "With that in mind, I intend to send word to my goodsister at Brightwater. She might bolster the defences on the keep itself as well as sending out search parties into the surrounding areas - Brightwater is closer to the Queen's last known location than Highgarden, if nothing else, and so they may have a better chance of finding her than we do here."

"I will return to Brightwater as soon as I can," Garlan put in. "I will head the search myself, Your Grace, if it please you."

It pleased Willas so much that he could only nod in reply, but he knew Garlan would understand. Garlan always seemed to understand.

"If it was the Florents that took Queen Sansa," Torwin Oakheart said, "then there can only be one conclusion drawn, Your Grace - they surely intend to use her as leverage against you, to remove you from Highgarden. They have never made a secret of their desire to oust House Tyrell, and with the break up of the realm they finally have an opportunity." The concern on his face was utterly sincere, and Willas loved him for that - he and Tor had been friends from they were boys, and he knew that Tor would support him in whatever he chose to do to get Sansa back.

"If we cannot find them," Garlan said quietly, "and they do present you with a choice between Sansa and Highgarden, what will you do, Will?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again just as quick. One look at Leyton had reminded him that in truth, there was no choice at all.


	6. Cause and effect

"It seems strange to me that you would choose to act in this manner," Sansa said mildly as Delena Florent oversaw her bath. The maid who had been assigned to her was a sweet enough girl - small and bright-eyed and oddly familiar, as if Sansa had met her once before and couldn't quite remember it - but the Florents did not trust any of their servants to be left alone with Sansa. She was not sure why, precisely - it was not as though she were in any position to act against them, not when she knew that there was a score or more of armed men about the place to ensure that she would not be easily taken if their position was uncovered.

"I am sure I don't know what you mean," Lady Delena said, and Sansa could not help but smile. She had treated Delena with precisely the respect owed her, from her Queen, the first night after her arrival at this ruin they called home at present, and that had enraged the lady.  _As if birthing a prince makes her my superior,_ Sansa had heard her raging just outside the door.  _My Edric is worth ten of her squalling brat!_

That she had described Leyton so had reassured Sansa of her son's safety - one of her guards had let slip that her son was not being held by the Florents, and been flogged for his trouble, but Sansa knew Leyton in all his moods, and he was not a loud babe unless in sincere distress, like when his teeth had started coming in.

Sansa had laughed, though, at Delena Florent comparing her Baratheon bastard to Leyton. She could only imagine how Willas would laugh to hear that the woman considered her son a prince, when the only reason he had been acknowledged at all had been the circumstances of his conception. 

She tried not to think of Willas and Leyton too often, though, for to do so was to risk breaking her composure. She missed them both terribly, and longed to return to them as soon as was possible.

But Delena Florent, well, Sansa would draw what entertainment there was to be had in her captivity from her captors, for there was little else to amuse herself with.

"Your cousin is wed to my husband's grandfather," she said, holding up her hair so the maid could scrub her back. "Another cousin of yours is mother to one of my husband's staunchest supporters. We maintain good relations with the Queen at Storm's End, another cousin of yours - based on  _your_ family, Lady Delena, it does not make sense that you would choose this path if Highgarden is your goal."

"Oh, of course," Delena sneered, and for all her confidence Sansa could see the fear under her smile - she suspected that this all was Lord Alekyne's plans, and that while much of his House agreed wholeheartedly with his motives, they disagreed with his actions. "And you are a master of strategy, I suppose, my lady."

"For one," Sansa said easily, "you will call me  _Your Grace_. And for another, Lady Delena, you forget that your family is not the worst that lies in wait for you and yours, nor even is my husband - although he will have nothing but pain in store for the men of your House, I promise."

"Tell me then, woman," Lady Delena said, folding her arms as Sansa stood out of her bath and allowed the maid to help her into a robe. "Tell me what the greatest danger my uncle faces is, the greatest repercussion he might face if this endeavour proves unsuccessful."

Sansa could not help but smile again, wider this time, a move which caused her split lip to ache but which clearly made Lady Delena uncomfortable. 

"You might remember, my lady," Sansa said, "that I, too, have a family, even without the House into which I married. Four Kingdoms worth, in fact."

 

* * *

 

"We have received a most worrying missive from your goodbrother in Highgarden, Lady Arya," Jaime said, tossing the letter onto the table and giving her a moment to read it. Her face went pale under her sunburn, white with shock and a sincere fear that surprised Jaime. "You think it true?"

"The King in Highgarden is not a man I know well," she admitted, "but my sister I know better than anyone else in the world, and I know that she would not hold him in such high regard if he were not an honest man."

"He gave her a child," Jaime said. "Some women would consider that reason enough to hold a man in high regard."

Arya Stark's smile was a strange thing - Jaime felt as though she were laughing at him all of the time, when she smiled that smile. It was somehow worse now, when she was so clearly out of sorts herself.

"My sister is missing, Your Grace," she said. "Considering the location of her last known whereabouts, it is not unreasonable for my goodbrother to wonder if mayhaps you were somehow involved." 

She moved in a way that reminded Jaime strangely of Tommen, like a cat, and she was on her feet and headed for the door before he could speak a word in rebuke. He did not trust her, this wife Tommen had chosen, but he doubted she would act openly against House Lannister unless she had confirmation of their involvement in her sister's disappearance.

"Pardon me, Your Grace," she said, sweeping a curtsy that was marred somewhat by the breeches she persisted in wearing in place of gowns. "But I must send word to my brother - even if he has no means to aid in the search for our sister, he does deserve to know."

 

* * *

 

Arya slammed her hands against Tommen's chest as hard as she could, forcing him back against the wall despite his size and strength.

"If you had  _anything_ to do with this," she hissed, "I will murder you with my bare hands. Tell me! Tell me you had nothing to do with this!"

"I would not have had your sister stolen away if I wanted her removed from Highgarden," Tommen said, catching her wrists and pushing her hands down so hard she stumbled and landed heavily on the end of the bed. "Had I any intention of doing so, I would have had her  _killed,_ Arya, because that would be the neatest solution! And I would hope that you at least trust that I am not so incompetent as to leave someone alive to bring your nephew home to his father if I  _did_  intend on stealing your sister away to use her against Willas damned Tyrell!" _  
_

Ah, so that was that strange light in his eyes that had so worried her. To speak so readily of Sansa's death could only mean that he had already planned for it, had taken it in mind as a possible consideration, a possible plan of action.

"So you would have killed her," she said, "but you have not?"

He hesitated, looking closer to her age and less the Kingslayer's - that queer coldness in his gaze aged him beyond belief, but in his confusion he seemed more the sweet, fat little boy she half-remembered from life before hell.

"I planned for it as soon as word reached us of your sister's marriage," he admitted, "but only as a precaution. Only in case your family and the Tyrells moved against us."

"And then you sought my hand?" she said, appalled. "You planned my sister's death, and then you  _sought my hand?"_

 

* * *

 

Leyton sucked sleepily on the laces of Willas' doublet as they looked over the maps laid out on the council table.

"Look, little one," Willas crooned, rocking Leyton slowly as he heaved himself along on one crutch, making sure to keep his other arm firm under Leyton's backside. "Uncle Gargoyle is doing a marvellous job of searching for your mama, isn't he?" 

Willas rested his cheek against Leyton's soft hair and sighed, ignoring whatever comments and protests Dickon Tarly wished to spout this evening. He'd only kept the blasted child in Highgarden to prevent him from ordering aid to the Florents - Willas knew the genealogies of the Reach better than near any man outside the Citadel, and there had been more than one marriage between the Tarlys and the Florents. He was only glad of Mother's being a Hightower, of his own closeness to his lord grandfather and to Uncle Baelor, of the solid faith that at least House Hightower stood with him against any aggressors who might do him and his harm.

He was confused when Tarly said nothing.

"Lord Dickon?" he said, surprised. "Nothing to add?"

"You have your heir, Your Grace," he said bluntly. "What worth is there in the Queen? She has done her duty, and so long as Prince Leyton remains your heir, you have your alliance with the North."

Willas stared, open-mouthed, at the foolish child sitting at his table, partaking of his hospitality, and now equating his wife to nothing more than a brood mare.

"I would take your leave now, Lord Tarly," he said through teeth gritted as tight as any of Loras' long ago impressions of Stannis Baratheon. "I would take your leave  _immediately_ if you wish to keep your teeth, Lord Tarly, because the insolence you are showing towards your _Queen_ is worthy of punishment."

"I am merely making a point, sire," Tarly said, rising from his seat. "You are not yourself, my lord - gods above, Your Grace, you cannot even see how foolish it is that you find yourself incapable of putting down the damned child for more than a moment!"

Willas took a deep breath, so deep that Leyton whimpered in annoyance at the disturbance. Gods, he wished Garlan were here, missed Father and Margaery and Loras and Granny so much it burned. 

"That is enough," came Mother's voice, and Willas felt sick with relief. "Lord Tarly, you are dismissed."

"Lady Tyrell-"

"You are  _dismissed,_ Lord Tarly," Willas snapped. "My mother's stands as Lady of Highgarden in my wife's absence, and you are therefore her guest - you will leave when she asks it of you."

The others - Robar Ashford and Arwyn Oakheart, each as silver-haired as Mother, staunch allies and close friends of his parents both, as well as Tanton and Jon Fossoway alike, and ugly Orton Merryweather - all fled in Tarly's wake, and Willas turned to Mother as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Let me," she said gently, taking Leyton from him and motioning for him to sit. "Oh, sweetling. You must stop letting him anger you so."

"He thinks I ought to let the Florents do as they please with my Sansa, Mother," he said quietly, slumping forward over the table. "How am I to remain calm when he says such things? It is as though he is unsure with whom his loyalties lie - his king, or his kin."

"Not an easy choice to make," Mother pointed out, stroking Leyton's hair and rocking him fully to sleep. "He is yet a child, Willas, or little more, and newly a lord - he is all bravado, son. All confidence and foolishness. He will learn. He will grow."

"You have word from Garlan, I assume," he said, unwilling to discuss Dickon Tarly a moment longer. "Else you would not have interrupted council."

"You know me well, sweetling," she said, reaching over to pat his cheek affectionately. "Indeed, there has been word from your brother - your grandfather has sent men to aid in the search, and Garlan thinks that he has narrowed down the area where they might readily keep Sansa from discovery. It cannot be long now, Willas. They will bring your lady home."

 

* * *

 

Sansa startled awake when the door of her cell was slammed open.

"Get her dressed," Lady Delena - who had been given charge of Sansa's care, and had used that charge to serve whatever little unhappinesses she could. Sansa did not much mind, in truth, for it was not as though she had enjoyed bounteous wealth while at Winterfell with Rickon and Arya, or great comfort and safety elsewhere before then, but she almost pitied Lady Delena the unhappiness that was surely hers, which caused her to lash out so.

Or at least, so Sansa told herself. In private, honest moments, she wished she were as brave as Arya and might have the strength to tear Delana blasted whore Florent's smug face right off.

"It is the middle of the night," she said, dragging her blanket around her shoulders against the chill. "Is there a reason I am to dress at such an odd time?"

"We are moving," one of the men behind Delena said. "And you must be ready to leave." 


	7. Movement

Arya was unsurprised when Tommen insisted on accompanying her when she led her men out of Casterly Rock - hers, those who had come from Winterfell with her, not any of the men who wore Lannister crimson.

She may not have been surprised, but she was most certainly angry.

She had agreed to marry him partially because he amused her - and she had liked him, it was true - but she had known, even when she had accepted his suit, that she would need to watch him closely lest he prove as much a Lannister as all the rest of his family. He had done so, in short order, and she knew that she would never forgive him for planning her sister's death.

"This marriage," she said, "was a mistake."

"It was made on political grounds," he bit out, nudging his horse closer to hers. "You hardly think my mother enjoyed being wed to her husband, do you?"

She laughed at that - he had never once referred to Robert Baratheon as his father in her hearing, and she was glad, because she knew she would never have been able to stop laughing had he done so - and shook her head, wondering if he even heard his own words half the time.

"Do you mean I should show you the same respect your mother showed the King?" she said, making no effort to keep the mockery from her voice. "I have a friend, a former lover, whose colouring would make the deceit less obvious."

Ned would find the whole thing hilarious, of course, she knew that as soon as the notion came to mind. They had been lovers on and off throughout the war, after her return from the east, while he had yet been in the North fighting toward the Wall. They had always been more friends than lovers, she knew, but she had always enjoyed his company, both in and out of bed.

"You would not dare," Tommen said furiously, drawing his horse to a halt and reaching across to halt hers, too. "You condemned my mother-"

"And you planned to kill my sister," she hissed. "Do not think to play at morals with me, my lord, when you have none of your own to play with."

He held her reins, staring hard at her, as though to make her bend to his will by the sheer force of it alone. 

"I will bear your children, Tommen Lannister," she said when he turned away, shamefaced, "because my parents raised me better than yours did you. But do not think to presume anything else of me."

She tugged her reins from his hands and smiled as sweetly as she knew how in her best impression of Sansa.

"We ride for Brightwater!" she called back to the men, "and from there, we will find my sister!"

 

* * *

 

 

"There is a simple way to prove I am not with child," Sansa said, rolling her eyes. "Ask Lady Delena if I have bled in the moon's turn since I have been your guest, Ser Alekyne. There is no need for me to drink whatever foul concoction your maester has brewed up, ser - I finished my bleeding not a fortnight past. Go ahead, ask Lady Delena. She will tell you. She certainly complained enough about providing me with the necessities."

Sansa almost laughed at the discomfort on Ser Alekyne's face, but held back. She knew that they had sent a ransom demand to Willas, just as she knew that they were becoming anxious - she suspected that her would-be rescuers were coming closer, and that the wider Florent family had begun to chafe under Ser Alekyne's obviously unwise leadership. 

His sudden determination to see that she was not with child was foolish - she knew that it was impractical and dangerous to have a swelling woman on the road, just as she knew the dangers of moon tea more than two moons into a woman's time.

No, even had she been with child, she would have refused the tea. She had seen what it could do to a woman, for all that she had never taken it herself, and had no intention of ever putting herself through it.

"I presume you would not have even considered my being with child had someone not suggested that a threat to his child might hold more sway over my husband than a threat to me?" she said lightly. 

Ah, she was right, then - she smiled and leaned back in her chair, wondering what their next move would be.

"How are your men to find you," she said, "when they return with the King's response to your demands? You are moving constantly for fear of being found, after all. Do they know your route? Is it all planned beforehand? For it seems to me as if your movements are becoming increasingly desperate, as if you are moving randomly in hopes of avoiding the men my husband has sent to find me-"

His hand whipped hard across her face, reopening the half-healed cut on her lip, the heavy ring he wore scraping deep into her cheek, but not quite cutting clean. 

"Oh yes," she said, starting to laugh. "Mistreating me in this way is certain to make my husband consider mercy when the time comes to judge you."

 

* * *

 

 

"This is ludicrous," Lady Arywn said, bouncing Leyton on her hip and shaking her head. "They cannot truly believe that you would give up Highgarden for-"

Willas saw the look Tor threw to his mother, and was both grateful and embarrassed. He wished he was not so plainly transparent, but did not know how to be otherwise - he had thought that mayhap relinquishing Leyton more often would make it less obvious, how desperately afraid he was for Sansa, but it appeared that it was not so.

"Garlan will find her, Will," Tor said quietly, his hand firm on Willas' shoulder. "He has never let you down even once before."

That was true, Willas knew, and he knew as well that with Baelor and Sansa's sister to help him, Garlan would succeed once more, but that did not stop him from worrying. Nothing would, not until he had Sansa safe before him, safe in his arms.

"We have time," Lord Ashford said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. He was an old man, several years older than Willas' father would have been, with hair the colour of granite and eyes the colour of slate. He was a steady sort of man, and Willas was glad of his company. He and Lady Oakheart were good for Mother, too, and he liked that - he knew how it upset her to see him and Garlan apart, to see him upset himself. 

Tor was nodding - Willas knew that look, knew that his friend was considering a plan of some sorts, and waited for him to speak.

Dickon Tarly, of course, did not know that Torwin Oakheart tucked his chin to his chest when deep in thought, and as usual, spoke without any urging whatsoever.

"They seek Highgarden," he said. "It is well known that you do not wish to hear sense, Your Grace, but it may be best to let them do as they would to the Queen to preserve Highgarden and your line-"

"Is that why I returned from seeing my son to sleep last night to find the maids ejecting your sister from my bedchamber, Lord Tarly?" Willas said. "Your opinion on this matter is no more impartial than my own, and it is considerably less welcome."

He waited until Tarly looked away, and then looked to Tor again.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me your plan, Torwin."

Tor didn't lift his chin from his chest, but his frown deepened.

"How willing would Garlan be to give up Brightwater, do you think?" he asked. "And not, before you say it, to that fool Alekyne. There is another Florent we might make use of, and I daresay that using him might earn us the thanks of the Queen in Storm's End."

Willas considered the plan for a moment, wondered...

"Ah," he said, unable to keep from smiling. "A feint. Very good."

 

* * *

 

 

Arya Stark - Arya Lannister, Garlan supposed - looked nothing at all like her sister, aside from the razor-edged smile.

"I have... Talents," she said, all teeth and hard eyes. "Find my sister, and I will ensure that she will come to no harm when you stage your rescue."


	8. Soon to be home

Sansa woke from a soft-edged dream of Willas and Leyton and the taste of lemoncakes when the cover of the wagon was torn off. She'd taken to sleeping while they travelled, for there was naught else for her to do - they always ensured that she was forced to lie down under a heavy canvas, so she could not see where they were going or even smell the air, much, to see if they were close to the coast.

"Come," Delena said shortly, her face pinched with exhaustion and worry. "We are to halt here for the night."

 _Here_ proved to be the ruin of a sept, hardly large enough to hold two dozen of them. Sansa curled on her side, her back to the wall, and longed for home, for her son and her husband and the comfort of her rooms and the ease of Lady Alerie's company. 

Most of all, of course, she longed for Leyton, but it surprised her every day just how deeply she missed Willas. She had known that they had been growing closer, but she had not realised quite how close she felt to him, quite how... Fond was too weak a word, but it was the closest she felt brave enough to use.

 

* * *

 

"Your sister is a clever woman," Garlan Tyrell said, "I don't doubt that she has found some way of avoiding punishment too grievous for her to bear."

"Even if she has not, Sansa is stronger than many give her credit for," Arya agreed. "She is a Stark, however much she may seem otherwise."

Sansa had been missing for weeks now, weeks and weeks, and Arya wondered how it was Lord Tyrell was so cheerful. There was no reason to assume that the Florents would treat her well, but he seemed to be doing so.

"They're leaving a trail obvious enough that even a fool could follow it," he said, gesturing to the deep wagon ruts digging through the grass. "They are panicking now, Princess, and will lead to their own ruin. My brother and the Lady Baratheon - the Queen Shireen, my pardons. Their using Ser Edric Storm's name as a threat and a promise, well, it has proven effective, at least in frightening Ser Alekyne and, we must pray, dismantling his control over his House. It would seem likely that the Lady Delena and her closest kin would err toward Ser Edric being safe at the very least, and legitimised as Lord of Storm's End and House Baratheon at best. Do you see?"

"Oh, I see," Arya agreed, "but that does not ensure my sister's safety, my lord."

His face softened, and he nodded.

"No, Princess," he said quietly. "But we may yet have hope."

 

* * *

 

"What news?" Willas asked upon entering the council chamber, Leyton, sucking on a slice of peach and doubtless drooling all over Willas' doublet, held high against his chest. "Has there been word from Garlan?"

"None yet, Your Grace," Maester Lomys said, "but there was a note from Lady Delena Norcross - she believes she may be able to convince her father, Ser Colin Florent, to depose his brother."

"She thinks he'll turn kinslayer?" Willas asked in surprise, taking his seat and shifting Leyton to his lap. Leyton's gums had been sore these past days, his poor little cheeks red-hot, and the cool sweetness of the peaches seemed to help at least a little. Willas wished that he could somehow stop Leyton from growing up any more, and prayed that Sansa would be returned to him before their son changed in any drastic way.

There had been good signs in that direction since Willas, with Shireen Baratheon's blessing, had issued a threat to the Florents - either return Sansa unharmed, or Edric Storm would be killed. If Sansa was returned quickly, then the Florents would be pardoned, Edric Storm would be legitimised and, it was hinted, would be placed ahead of any daughters Shireen Baratheon bore Aegon Targaryen in the succession for Storm's End and the Stormlands.

Willas knew that Queen Shireen would never relinquish Storm's End, not after herself and her father before her had fought so hard to claim what was theirs, but the Florents did not know that, and Willas, having read the report Garlan had sent the week before, knew that the Florents were becoming ever more desperate as Garlan and Baelor came closer to catching them, one of them from the north and the other from the south.

"I know not, my lord," Lomys said, "but she says she can bring this to a peaceful resolve if her sons, trueborn and otherwise, are spared."

Willas didn't much want to spare  _any_ Florent, and knew that it would be next to impossible to do so if they were mistreating Sansa in any way, but he knew, too, that Delena Florent's sons were young enough to render their parts in this fool plot negligible, if they had any parts at all.

"Find a means of sending word to her, then," he said. "And tell her that if she can deliver my wife to me, I will see to it that her sons are spared."

 

* * *

 

Sansa winced as her lip cracked - it was taking an age to heal, would have done so even without Ser Alekyne slapping it open again - but drank greedily all the same, thirsty after the long day trapped under the canvas. She supposed they must be enjoying a spate of warmer weather, for it had been hot and muggy in her prison, and she was parched, thirstier than she was hungry.

"Drink up, my lady," Delena Florent said, tipping the cup back when Sansa motioned for more. "And once your stomach is settled for certain, we'll find you something to eat, and somewhere warm to lay for the night."

"Was it very warm today?" Sansa asked when at last she'd had her fill of the water, licking her lips and wincing at the copper-salt of the cut. "It felt it, under the covering."

"No, my lady," Delena said, looking suddenly old enough to have a child Edric Storm's age. Sansa wondered when Lady Delena's behaviour towards her had changed, for she had not noticed it at the time, but now, she could see the difference. Now, she could appreciate the gentleness of Delena Florent's hands as she helped Sansa down from the wagon, or the looser tie of the ropes around Sansa's wrists when Lady Delena had been given charge of her bonds. "You do seem warm, though - come, I will have the maester look you over."

The maester declared that the wound Ser Alekyne had given Sansa with his ring had festered, to the point where it was causing her a fever, and would scar badly - she didn't care, much, because she knew Willas would not care if she came home to him with half her face burned away - if he cut away the poison.

"Do what you must, maester," Sansa said, looking to Lady Delena. "My husband's scars are worse than any you might inflict on me this night, after all."

Lady Delena held Sansa's hand as the maester's knife slipped into her skin, and when Sansa was led to her bedroll for the night, her cheek washed out with boiled wine and a herbal tincture that reminded her of the kitchen garden in Winterfell, she read the note Lady Delena had pressed into her palm by moonlight, and wept as quietly as she could to see the familiar swooping lines of Willas' writing.

 

* * *

 

The ruins were better than some where they had traced the Florents to in recent weeks - the roof was still largely intact, at least, or so Arya prayed. It would not do for one of the beams on which she was walking to give way beneath her, after all.

They had Sansa in a corner, the corner furthest from the door, with guardsmen all around her (save for one lady, who lay near to her, there were none but guards within ten men of Sansa, which might have been funny had it not been for the fact that these men were there to keep Sansa prisoner, not to keep her safe), but Arya knew that that would not present any great difficulty. Sansa had always been graceful and light-footed, after all, and would no doubt be more than able to keep up with Arya once they were through the window not ten yards from the corner where Sansa slept.

The rough stone of the walls provided plenty of footholds as Arya crept to the floor through a hole in the roof, and she nearly laughed as the men on watch by the door did not even twitch at the soft thud of her boots on the packed earth. 

Sansa blinked sleepily when Arya pressed a finger to her lips, and sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes as she went.

Arya kept her finger pressed to Sansa's mouth a moment longer, then pointed to the window - Sansa blinked a handful more times, then smiled, her lip cracking, and eased herself to her feet. Arya rolled her eyes as Sansa, ever the lady, gathered up the skirts of a gown that had seen better, cleaner days, and stepped daintily around her captors, but said nothing, because none of them stirred between Sansa waking and Sansa reaching the window.

Arya followed after her, then, and laced her fingers together to provide a step for Sansa, who she knew would not even think of clambering up to the sill as Arya herself intended on doing. Sansa smiled gratefully, practically skipping up and swinging her legs around, and Arya wished she could see the look on Sansa's face when she found Garlan Tyrell standing under the window, ready to catch her.

The tight embrace of Sansa's arms once they were safe in the Tyrell camp was compensation enough, she supposed. In the morning, her men and Garlan Tyrell's and Baelor Hightower's would fall on the Florets, taking prisoner the women and children and infirm and any who surrendered, and putting to the sword any who fought, but for now, there was Sansa safe and smiling, and that was what mattered most.

Tommen sat away from the fire that evening, bathed in shadow and limned in gold, and Arya wished, for a moment, that he had never let slip about his plans for Sansa's life.


	9. Home at last

Sansa had given explicit instructions to the boy Garlan had sent on ahead of them that Willas was not to be informed of their approach. It had taken her three days, but she had managed to wheedle the truth of how Willas had handled her time away out of her goodbrother, and she would not see her husband woke in the middle of the night to see her in this state.

Garlan and Arya both had all but force-fed her since they had rescued her from the Florents, but it had only been a little over a week, and she had been poorly fed for near to three moons now, and it would take a long while before the ridges of her ribs smoothed once more. She was filthy, too, her hair thick with grease and grime, and her skin filmy to the touch - she feared that she likely smelled something awful, too, and for that reason alone she had no intention of seeing her husband until she had had a long, hot bath.

And then there was the question of her face, of course. Oh, she had braved it out while still with the Florents, assured that Willas would not turn away from her for such a slight thing, but then she had caught sight of it in Garlan's shaving mirror, and she had been struck mute with horror. Her cheek was a terrible thing, puckered and ragged where Ser Alekyne's ring had torn it, split and stitched cleanly where the maester had opened it to release the poison. She had two ugly wounds now, one above the other, and she did not know how she could expect Willas to overlook such things.

It hurt to think so - she had concentrated so hard on worrying for Leyton that she ha.d managed to ignore thoughts of the strange, delicious lightness that had consumed her whenever she was with Willas before she left for Arya's wedding, the same one that had driven her to whisper sweet, foolish things into Leyton's hair while they were at Casterly Rock, where Willas need not have heard her say them.

"He will be furious with me that I did not have him woken from bed as soon as we reached Highgarden," Garlan told her, helping her down from the saddle and steadying her when her knees buckled under her. She had wept, once she was safe, for Whisper, the beautiful horse Willas had gifted to her, who had been cut down by the Florents when they took her and killed her guards. "I swear it, Your Grace, His Grace the King will be most displeased that we did not-"

"Oh, stop it, my lord Tyrell," Arya said, smiling. "My sister the Queen is a vain woman, in her way, and I do not doubt that she wishes to look her best before seeing her lord husband for the first time in so long-"

"I would like a bath," Sansa said, tired of even Garlan and Arya's good-natured bickering. "I would like a bath, and to wash my hair, and then I should like to sit by the fire for an hour or two to take the heavy wetness from my hair. During that time I should like some fruit to eat,  _fresh_ fruit, and lemon water to drink. I would like a linen nightgown, and a woollen robe, and I would like my slippers with the rabbit skin lining. And then, once all that is done, I would like to sleep beside my husband, and I would like to be  _left alone."_

They both looked at her in amazement, but she wished that she was already home so badly that she felt near to tears. She missed Leyton so appallingly that she could feel the phantom of his weight in her arms, and the warmth of Willas' skin against her own was the thing she desired above all else just then. 

"Let us proceed," she said firmly, looking down at her shaking hands on the reins instead of meeting either Garlan or Arya's gaze.

Highgarden by moonlight was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and she could not but gallop on ahead, laughing helplessly in relief at finally,  _finally_ being so close by her husband and her son.

 

* * *

 

It took longer than she would have liked to wash the muck from her hair, but her head felt lighter than it had in weeks by the time she was done. Her own maids - Marian, who she knew had been part of the household since the time of Willas' birth, and Alyssa, who had come from Winterfell with her - had been killed in the ambush, and Garlan had assured her that their bodies had been brought here to Highgarden and laid to rest. It felt strange to let women she knew not at all to help her bathe and ready herself for bed, and she felt so lonely for everyone she had known that it ached.

She shrieked in surprise to find Lady Alerie waiting for her by the fire in her solar, wrapped in a heavy gown that looked to be silk but Sansa knew to be lined with wool, for it was near a twin to the one she was wearing herself. Arya, too, was present, scrubbed clean, dressed in a soft shirt of deep grey linen stitched with golden lions, in Arya's characteristic terrible stitches, which surprised Sansa - she had seen the strange tension between Arya and her husband, and for Arya to wear the Lannister sigil was not something she had ever expected to see.

Lady Alerie's arms seemed thinner than Sansa remembered, her face more worn, but her smile was familiar and warm and the first sign of home Sansa had truly felt since her return. Her own rooms were bare, more or less, for she had always spent more time in Willas' chambers than hers, but here, with glossy red apples on the table and honeyed lemon water in the great glass jug, with Lady Alerie holding her hand and Arya sprawled on the hearth rug, Sansa could do no more than smile and pick at the fruit.

"You will be amazed by how Leyton has grown," Lady Alerie confided. "Willas never sets him down for longer than a few moments, so he has not yet started to walk, but he is a beautiful boy - so alert and bright, Sansa, you will hardly believe it."

She would believe it, she knew, believe that part of her son's life had been stolen away from her. 

"Please excuse me," she said, half an hour into their little impromptu celebration, "but I find myself exhausted."

She didn't even take proper leave of them before running out into the hall and then into Willas' solar next door, through that and into his bedchamber-

She sobbed, pressing her hand over her mouth, and tore at her robe, kicking it behind her with her slippers as she scrambled to the bed, where, where,  _oh,_ where a babe who seemed far too big to be her Leyton was sprawled on his back on Willas' chest, a tiny twin to his father, both of them snoring loudly, mouths open and arms and legs spread wide. Willas always took up much of the bed, and she was just so terribly relieved to find that unchanged that she did not want to wake him, that she simply slid under the covers and pressed herself to his side, her hand to Leyton's fat little belly, and went to sleep with tears in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

Willas lifted his hand to catch Leyton's wrists without even opening his eyes. This was a routine thing - Leyton awoke every morning, starving as though he had not been fed in days, and sat himself upright on Willas' chest, the better to batter his poor father into wakefulness so they might together go in search of sustenance.

"Hush, lad," he said, laughing when Leyton flopped down atop him, nuzzling under his chin. "We'll break our fast in a little while, I promise you, but sleep some more, lad, just a little more-"

"Willas?"

He bolted upright, clutching Leyton to his chest in a blind panic, and near fell out of the bed in his scramble.

"Willas- no, Willas, please, please do not leave me, I could not bear it-"

Sansa, his Sansa, alive and living and  _here_ , by some miracle!

"How?" he demanded. "When last I heard from Garlan you were still captive to the Florents-"

"He and Arya found me a week ago now," she said, and he couldn't help but cry out in pure, desperate relief, no more than he could help but throw his arm around her and pull her to his chest, terrified that she might be some sort of fever dream sent to torment him in his loneliness. "Oh, Willas, Willas I have  _missed_ you-"

Leyton tugged on Sansa's hair, her beautiful, bright hair, and she sobbed, clutching him close without taking him wholly from Willas' hold, and Willas couldn't help but want to kiss her - so he did, nudging her face up with his own and kissing her as hard as he could, or at least as hard as he dared with Leyton between them.

"I had near given up hope of finding you," he told her, shaking as he tucked his face into the side of her neck. "I had begun to fear you would never be returned to me, love, I was so afraid."

Her eyes were shining when he lifted his head, and it took him a moment to understand what was causing the twist of her smile.

She flinched away from his touch, but he had to know that this, too, was real.

"I will kill whatever man dared to harm you in this way," he said, barely brushing his thumb over the angry wound in her cheek. "I will have him torn apart by my dogs-"

"Please just hold me," she said, slipping back against him as if she'd never been away. "Later, Willas, but for now, please, just hold me. It has been so long."

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And some Florents were killed and others were spared and Delena got a happy ending too.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented on, subscribed to, or left kudos on this fic :)


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